


Still the Same

by waywardrose



Category: BlacKkKlansman (2018)
Genre: 1960s, AFAB reader - Freeform, Angst with a Happy Ending, Colorado, F/M, High School, Historical Inaccuracy, Military, Military Inaccuracies, Military Training, Mutual Pining, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-High School, Recreational Drug Use, Vaginal Fingering, good first time, handjob
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 15:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29886336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardrose/pseuds/waywardrose
Summary: He cracked the window, letting in the crisp spring air. It was too  dark to see where specifically he was looking, but he had turned to face  you. One hand remained on the steering wheel, the other over the back  of the seat.He offered, “Wanna get in the back?”“Sure,” you said, dropping your purse on the floor, and opened your door.
Relationships: Flip Zimmerman/Reader, Flip Zimmerman/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27





	Still the Same

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ElmiDol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElmiDol/gifts).



> anonymous said: Hi Wayward Rose! A prompt idea for Flip: maybe something in the early days of knowing the reader with lots of romantic tension? No pressure if you don't like the prompt though..Thanks! : )
> 
> WR: Thank you for the prompt, sweet nonny! I like this idea. Hope you enjoy how I interpreted it! (Title from Bob Seger's "Still the Same," which I know is anachronistic, and the lyrics aren’t perfect for this fic, but whatever. It’s a mood.) Also, I posted a sample of this on Tumblr with a challenge for readers to guess who the guy was, and ElmiDol guessed correctly! So, here's to you, babe!

Your clit was sore.

Not because you'd used it right all night, but because Phil Zimmerman was an idiot.

You don't know why you agreed to go out with him. He was just like the rest. He had his license. He could borrow his mother's station wagon. Blah, blah— _whatever._

He was cute, sure. In class, he was quiet. He made good grades. So, he was an idiot, but he wasn't dumb. Just like all the rest.

Obviously, you'd been too dry last night. Or his touch might've been too rough, too eager. Unfortunately, he didn't have the brain capacity to swirl his finger while you jerked him off. It was kind of pathetic.

Luckily, he'd jizzed all over the backseat and not on your new purple jeans.

You'd maneuvered his hand out of your underwear, zipped up, and climbed into the front seat to hide your disappointment. So much for a second date. At the same time, Phil had tried to keep you back there, murmuring a _"hey"_ that ended in a question. He'd tried to kiss you. He'd gruffly thanked you.

That was more than some boys did.

He'd driven you home and put a hand on your forearm to keep you from leaving once he stopped at the curb.

"Let me walk you to the door," he'd said.

You'd shrugged. "Okay."

He'd come around the car and taken your hand. On the porch, he put his hands on your waist to reel you closer. You'd gone with it, because you didn't hate him or anything.

"Did something go wrong back there?" he'd asked.

"No, it's fine."

"Can I call you tomorrow?"

"Sure, after seven."

"I really dig you, you know."

Of course he does, you'd thought. You just touched his wiener.

He'd then pulled you flush and slanted his head to kiss you. His lips were perfect and pillowy, swollen from making out earlier. Yours were, too. You'd urged him to open his mouth, and he'd done it. That velvety, clever tongue of his had moved with yours. His kisses kept making promises his hands couldn't keep.

He was a really good kisser, though. Probably the best you'd had. You'd make out with him any time, anywhere. But he couldn't finger you for shit.

Before you'd forgotten yourself and invited him to sit with you on the glider bench, the porch light had winked off and on a few times.

Busted.

He'd laughed with you, saying he'd call. You'd nodded and let him go, though you don't remember wrapping your arms behind his neck. He'd bounced down the stairs and down the walk. He'd given you a wave before getting into the car and leaving.

* * *

Phil talked you into another date.

It was a stupid idea. He didn't get your body. Maybe your sexuality. You were a fully developed person with some experience. You needed more than clumsy fumbling. Unfortunately, you were stuck with boys your own age. Your parents would blow a gasket if you tried for anyone in college.

Besides, Phil was fun to talk to.

After watching _Butch Cassidy_ in a second-run theater, he'd taken you to Conway's. You two had talked about the last Apollo mission over stuffed hash browns. He joked about becoming an astronaut. You pointed out he'd have to join the Air Force for that. He grunted and mentioned the upcoming draft.

"I might have no choice," he said. "It's horseshit."

"Will you dodge it?"

He sighed. "Nah." He took a drink of his peanut-butter shake. "Might join the National Guard to avoid charlie altogether."

"Well," you began and set your fork aside. "You're free now."

"Damn right." His almost-hazel brown eyes darkened. "Wanna get outta here?"

You should have said no, but you didn't. You grinned and fished out your change purse.

"I got this," he said.

"Let me get tip."

He nodded, said, "Thanks," and went to the register to pay. You admired him from the back for a second. He'd worn his Sunday best. Well, Saturday best. You didn't know if people dressed up for temple. You didn't even know if he went to temple. Either way, he looked nice in an oxford shirt, slacks, and a suede jacket.

After leaving a decent tip, you joined him at the register. He took your hand after stowing his wallet. His warm palm engulfed yours. You thought of that palm cradling your breast, those fingers between your legs.

Maybe tonight would be better than last Friday.

In the car, he asked, "Mesa Overlook?"

"If you want."

"Yeah, I definitely want."

You snorted. You didn't doubt it for a second.

His eyes glittered in the light coming from the diner. He looked at you like he wanted to say more. You smiled at him before facing the windshield.

He asked, "Are you sure? We don't have to."

You turned your upper body to him and braced your hands on the bench seat. He pivoted towards you, a smile playing beneath the surface. You glanced at his lips.

"I don't know..." Putting a little husk in your voice, you asked, "How about we go back to my house instead?" With a grin, you finished, "And play Bridge with my parents?"

He laughed and leaned in. "I'm not much of a card player."

"Pity."

Maybe you could've helped him with his poker-face.

You returned to your seat and placed your purse on your lap like a proper lady.

He followed you, scooting across the seat. As he drew near, he curled two fingers under your jaw to turn your head.

"Hey," he murmured once you were looking at him.

His eyes danced as he studied your face. He swooped in and caught your lips with his. Your breath caught, chest instinctually arching. He held your jaw where it met your throat. No one had ever done that. Your stomach tightened while your cunt clenched.

He pulled back to murmur, "Mesa Overlook, yeah?"

"Yeah," you sighed.

He kept his hand on your bare thigh the whole drive. You kept thinking about that hand creeping up your skirt. You really wanted this time to be better.

At night, the red sandstone formations were black. The gibbous moon dripped silver over the craggy tops. The distance between where Phil had parked the car and where the ground rose around the mesa seemed impossible to calculate. The snow-crowned mountains were even farther, yet wrapped around the quiet car to hide the horizon.

He cracked the window, letting in the crisp spring air. It was too dark to see where specifically he was looking, but he had turned to face you. One hand remained on the steering wheel, the other over the back of the seat.

He offered, "Wanna get in the back?"

"Sure," you said, dropping your purse on the floor, and opened your door.

You met him in the backseat, the naugahyde frigid under you. Angling yourself in the corner, you wet your lips and crooked a leg. Though you couldn't see it, you felt him zero-in on the way your skirt moved up. That alone showed you weren't wearing a slip underneath.

"What're you wearing under that?"

"What do you think?"

Instead of replying, he slid closer, hips leading the way. You got a hold of his jacket to tug him near. His hand landed on your inner thigh right at the hem of your skirt. He moved in and kissed you again. His tongue slithered against yours as his hand followed your leg to its apex.

You both shivered as he made contact with the plain cotton of your underwear.

You spread your thighs, but his hand kept moving up. He palmed at your belly, taking the front of your skirt with him. The colder air made goosebumps spring up over your thighs. His hand smoothed up your body until he cupped one of your breasts.

You pulled him closer, blundering your knees around his hips. He dragged his groin between your legs with a chest-deep moan. The heat and solid ridge of his erection grated against your mound. You angled your pelvis to get it right on your slit.

He inched down to mouth at your neck as he massaged your breast. You didn't have to warn him not to leave marks, but at the moment, you didn't care anyway. You snaked your hands under his warm jacket, down his flexing back, past his belt to grab his ass. He whispered a curse as his hips stuttered forward. The bulge of his cock nestled in your folds.

You bit your lip with a whimper.

"Feel so good," he murmured, his breath cooling his saliva on your neck.

He pinched your nipple through your clothes, making you lurch under him. You guided his head up until you could kiss him again. He sagged against you, letting go of your breast, and braced himself on the door.

He ground his pelvis against yours until you showed him how to rock with your body.

"Like that," you whispered against his lips.

He nodded and kissed you once more as his grinding smoothed out. His shaggy hair tickled your cheeks, and you pushed it from his heated face.

You hooked a calf over the backrest and rolled your hips to rut back. Your soaked underwear rubbed over your clit. Tension built low in your gut. He groaned before hiding his face in your shoulder. You grinned to yourself, leaned your head against his, and closed your eyes. You held his sides, feeling his muscles work.

"Fuck," he panted. "You're gonna make me come."

You whined, "Not yet."

"You close?"

You shook your head.

_"Fuck,"_ he repeated.

Nosing under his hair, you kissed the expanse of his pale neck above the collar of his jacket. He stilled, the mound of his cock burning through the layers of clothes. You kissed the pulse point in his neck, then moved to the hinge of his jaw. He tasted of shaving cream and sweat.

As you sucked on his earlobe, his breath caught and erection jerked. You nipped at the side of his ear, and he wrenched his head away to meet your gaze.

"Jesus Christ, you're seriously gonna make me come."

"I didn't know your cute ears were so sensitive."

He sputtered, "C-cute?"

"Very." You ran your hands up his sides and rounded his chest to pet his pecs. "Now kiss me."

"No, get your panties off."

"What?"

"You heard me, baby, take 'em off."

"We are not doing it."

"I know. I just wanna make you come."

"What?"

"I said: I want—to make—you come." He sighed and reared back. "I know I didn't last time."

You lay there in indecision. He could do that without you removing an article of clothing. It was chilly. What if someone saw? However, the thought of him touching everything unimpeded was a thrill. It was dark, too. It wasn't like he'd be taking pictures.

He interrupted by asking, "Should I do it for you?"

"Do what?"

"Get your panties off."

You bit your lip and said, "If you can manage it."

"I can if you'll keep still."

"I can do that."

His hands slid up your thighs and under your skirt to round over your hips. His fingers hooked over the waistband of your underwear and dragged them down in an unexpected caress. His knuckles trailed down your outer thighs.

He commented, "So soft."

You shivered as the cool air flooded between your bodies as he pulled away to get your underwear completely off. Then his palms spread your inner thighs and smoothed down them until he almost touched your pubic hair. Your pelvis jerked to make contact with his fingers.

He supported himself with a forearm on the backrest while the other hand explored and petted. His panting breaths paused as one of his fingers dipped into your drenched slit. It slid right between your slick folds like it was supposed to be there.

"Holy shit," he groaned.

You yanked at his jacket lapels and kissed him when he was close enough. He kissed back, sloppy and distracted, but his finger moved perfectly inside you. He put pressure on your mound as he edged his finger in and out. You gasped at how good that felt.

With no warning, he added a second finger. They were thick, almost too thick. You whined at the intrusion, your cunt tightly quivered.

He paused to whisper, "Okay?"

His breath ghosted over your lips.

"Yeah, just warn me next time."

Phil caught your lips with his—like something you said spurred him on. The distraction had your body relaxing. He began slowly flexing his fingers, massaging your walls. You let your legs fall open because it felt amazing to be stuffed with his fingers. He leaned his hips against his hand, his rough palm jammed against your stiff clit. Your eyes went wide as your mouth slackened.

He kissed the corner of your open mouth as he ground down.

"Shit, baby, so wet."

You whispered, "Uh-huh, don't stop."

The fingers inside you pressed deep, and his palm rocked with his motions. You could do nothing but brace yourself and breathe. Not like it helped. Your body shook, legs tensed. He pressed harder as he cranked his hips faster.

You gnawed at your lip as heat suffused your cheeks and chest. This was different. The way you shook was different. It was a fever. The cool night did nothing to soothe it.

Your breath caught in your throat as you strained. You couldn't move, didn't want to get away. You clawed at the car door's armrest. You moaned, surprised, as orgasm surged through your cunt. Your muscles throbbed in time with it. You couldn't still your bucking hips.

"Can feel that— _Jesus Christ,_ you're really coming."

He kept the pressure on until you couldn't take it anymore. You fisted the collar of his jacket, but you didn't know if you were pushing him away or drawing him closer. You couldn't feel anything outside of the rabbit-paced thudding of your heart.

"Phil, please, too much!"

He backed off, his fingers eased out. You missed him already. Your legs jolted of their own accord.

"Bet I could slide right in."

"No, don't."

He shushed you. "I won't." Softer, he said, "God, I want to, though."

In the murky interior of the car, you caught him licking his middle finger. The one that had been inside you. He groaned before fumbling at the front of his slacks. You caught a glimpse of his erection bobbing from his briefs as he wrapped his hand around the base.

He whispered, "Oh fuck."

You sat to help, to touch, but he snarled for you to lie back.

"I'm gonna come on this little bush of yours."

You lay back and folded your skirt to your waist. You rested a leg on his thigh as he tugged at his dick. The rhythmic _shlick-shlick_ made you wish one of you had a rubber. His breathing picked up as his hips rocked counterpoint to his fist.

How you wish you could see him. The dark hid so many things from your curious gaze: how red his cock was, the blush in his cheeks, the glitter of his eyes.

He choked as his shoulders hunched. His hips hitched, and heavy streams of hot liquid striped your lower belly. It trickled through your pubic hair to wet your mound.

Phil groaned a drawn-out, breathless, _"Fuck."_

You let go of your skirt to run your palms up his torso. He crested over you to kiss you with hot lips, sharp teeth, and a sly tongue.

* * *

_"You must come for luncheon!"_ Phil's mother said over the phone after interrupting his call. _"I want to meet the girl my Philip's been dating."_

Her voice was insistent and self-assured, yet jovial.

In the background, Phil griped, _"Ma..."_

Your first instinct was to say you weren't dating Phil. You were just going to the movies or bowling with him. Yes, he usually paid, but that was because he was the one inviting you. And sure, you made out with him. That didn't mean you two were going steady.

He didn't carry your books to class for you or sit with you during lunch. You two didn't even share a lunch bell, anyway. He never said much during school, as a matter of fact.

You didn't think he was embarrassed to be seen with you. At least, you hoped he wasn't.

He said hi before Trigonometry—the only class you two had in common—and let you copy a homework problem or two. Or twelve.

That didn't mean anything. It wasn't anything serious. Right?

You couldn't figure out why that stung just a little.

"Uh," you _eloquently_ replied. "Sure?"

_ "Wonderful! Saturday at one! I can't wait to meet you, dear!" _

A scratchy swoosh and muffled voices ended the conversation before you could say anything.

_"Sorry about that,"_ Phil said. _"You don't have to come."_

"No! It's fine. I don't mind. Your mom sounds nice."

_ "Maybe we can go out after lunch." _

"I can't. I have to finish this stupid History paper."

_"Oh."_ He paused, and you almost offered to see him tomorrow night, but he said, _"I almost forgot, I got a Bio test on Monday."_

"Ugh, Mr. Garrett? He's the worst."

_ "No shhh— _ yeah _ , he's tough. Well, I better let you go." _

"Sure, yeah."

_ "See you on Saturday, then." _

"And Friday."

_ "Friday?" _

"Yeah, Trig? Remember? We share a class?"

_ "Oh yeah. Sorry. Friday. Yeah. See ya then." _

"See ya."

You hung up and stared at the phone. He'd forgotten he had Trig with you. He sat in the same row as you—and had for weeks. That didn't have to mean anything, though. He'd sounded distracted. His mother was probably still in the room.

It wasn't like he was dating other girls. No one had said anything about dating him. You weren't sure if anyone else had shown an interest in him. Though if they didn't, they were blind.

Phil was cool. And smart and funny. He was cute, too. He'd grown his hair over the summer. The school's dress-code made him keep it above the collar, but it was still long enough to pull. Which you'd done. Repeatedly. His mole-dotted skin was clear, and his crooked smile was infectious.

Any girl would be lucky to have him.

* * *

Phil wasn't in class on Friday.

You didn't know his friends. They may not have been aware he'd taken you out a few times. If they weren't, it could be awkward to walk up to them and demand answers.

You went home after school without getting an explanation.

You debated calling him. If he was sick, you didn't want to disturb him. If he'd skipped, you certainly didn't want to rat him out to his parents. Dropping by was right out. You figured there was nothing you could do.

You distracted yourself by beginning, and nearly finishing, that stupid History paper.

* * *

On Saturday, your mother dropped you off at the Zimmermans on her way to the market. Mrs. Zimmerman answered the door and ushered you inside. She wore a casual pink shift-dress, her jet-black hair pushed back with a matching headband. Mr. Zimmerman was nowhere in sight. Though in the living room, the folded sports section of the newspaper asserted his claim of an armchair. Phil sat next to you at the kitchen table, looking no worse for wear.

While you knew Mrs. Zimmerman was interrogating you over lunch, she never seemed to judge you too harshly. She fussed over you and complimented you. Phil did a lot of the talking to fill in the gaps of the conversation. He knew more about you than you realized.

Before you knew it, lunch was over. You insisted on helping Phil clean up while Mrs. Zimmerman smoked a cigarette. The rich scent of Pall Malls filled the kitchen to compete with the Ivory dish soap.

"What are your plans after school, dear?" Mrs. Zimmerman asked after blowing a stream of smoke towards the open back door.

Sunlight reflected off the pale linoleum tiles illuminating the smoke into a plume of white.

"I've been accepted at UCCS."

"That new campus? By Austin Bluffs?"

"Yes, ma'am," you replied with a grin as you dried another dish from the rack.

She hummed in interest. "Smart girl. You stay in school. I only made it through a year of community college before marrying Phil's father."

"What were you studying?"

"Oh, nothing serious. Just bookkeeping. I took a course or two on art history—you know, as an elective." She stubbed out the end of her cigarette. "You have a major in mind?"

"No, ma'am."

Phil interjected, "You're good at writing papers. You could be a journalist."

You hadn't considered that before.

"Maybe?" you agreed with a small shrug. "I'll see what grabs me next year."

A not-exactly comfortable silence descended. You didn't think you'd said something bad. You'd just told the truth.

"Why don't you two run along, and I'll finish here," Mrs. Zimmerman said as she stood.

Phil asked, "You sure?" as you opened your mouth to protest.

"Yes, go have fun! Life's short," she replied.

He nodded and took the dishtowel from you to dry his hands. "Thanks, Ma."

"Thank you for lunch, Mrs. Zimmerman."

"My pleasure, dear. We'll have to do this again."

Phil took your hand to lead you out of the kitchen, saying over his shoulder he'd drive you home. Luckily, you'd told your mother to wait for your call before picking you up. He plucked the keys from the hook by the front door as you slung on your light jacket.

Outside, someone whistled behind the open hood of a sedan parked under the carport. That had to be Mr. Zimmerman, but Phil didn't say anything. He opened the passenger door of the familiar station wagon for you.

"Forgot something—wait here," he said and closed the door after you.

You rolled down the window to help dissipate the heat that had built in the closed interior. Phil returned in a few minutes, got in, and started the car.

"Wanna go driving?" he asked as he reversed out of the driveway.

"Okay. Where to?"

"I don't know. Just around."

With a nod, you said, "Okay."

He went quiet. The radio was barely above a whisper. He drove south, avoiding downtown, until on a forest-lined two-laned road. The air cooled, tinged with shadowed green.

"Got my draft registration papers couple days ago," he said.

"Is that why you weren't in school yesterday?"

He nodded. "Mom let me stay home, fill them out." He stopped the car in a pull-off. "My birthday's next week."

You hadn't known—hadn't even thought to ask when his birthday was.

"Are you doing anything?" you asked, racking your brain for a gift idea.

He shook his head as he switched off the car. "What's there to celebrate?"

"You'll be eighteen."

He snorted. "I'll get to buy three-two beer and cigarettes and die for my country. Yay."

"Hey, you'll be the most popular guy in school when everyone finds out about the beer."

"Eh," he said with a smirk and threw a glance at you. "I'm not the only one who can do that."

"Maybe not, but you're the only one I know that can."

"You know what else I can do?"

"What?"

He fished in his front pocket to produce a rolled sandwich bag containing a Zippo lighter and two warped joints.

"Provide other amusements."

You snorted, which quickly turned into a laugh. He smiled at you, bright and wide, the creases of his dimples deepening.

You'd only smoked weed once, at a sleepover, but it had been fun. It would be fun with Phil, too. Besides, there was no better place to partake in mother nature than in mother nature.

"You wanna?" he asked with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"Sure!"

"C'mon," he said and stepped out of the car.

You followed him under the canopy of green. It was quiet and shady, like a house of God. He found a natural path yards away from the road and led the way down a gentle slope. You didn't want to go too far, lest you get turned around. He seemed to have the same idea, because he pointed out a huge log nearby.

You agreed and settled with him on the cracked bark of the log. He was close enough that you bumped his shoulder, though that wasn't saying much. His shoulders had broadened over the last year. By the size of his hands, you guessed his body wasn't finished growing.

He playfully returned your bump as he unrolled the bag and stuck a joint between his lips. You watched him light it and take a hit, the leaf crackling in the hush. He passed it to you as he sputtered to hold his breath.

Back and forth you two passed it until nothing but a roach remained. You clicked your gummy tongue, trying to produce some saliva. Your muscles were so loose, your head like a happy balloon. Phil hummed and stared at the sky through the evergreens.

After a minute of trying to formulate the question, you asked, "Are you going to college?"

"I don't think so."

"But if you go, won't you get a deference?"

"I think you mean deferential."

You frowned. Neither of those words sounded right. You met his gaze and laughed, surprising yourself. He laughed, too. You grabbed his thigh as you rocked forward. His hand came dangerously low at the small of your back.

"Holy shit," you wheezed.

"Yeah, I'm fucked up."

"Me too!"

You giggled as you nestled against his shaking side. With a sigh, you stared into the forest. The streams of sunlight coming from between the trees dazzled and swayed.

"Seriously, though." You cleared your dry throat with a cough. "I'm serious."

"Serious face."

You still smiled, though you asked, "What about college?"

"The old man won't pay for it. I think he wants me to get drafted."

You turned towards him as your smile vanished. "Wha—? No! Really?!"

"He volunteered at the end of World War Two. Got sent to Africa."

"But Vietnam's different."

"No shit, but he thinks we're justified being over there. I don't know." He cleared his throat and sniffed. "If I volunteer, I get to choose."

"But you can't do that until after graduation?"

"I can go down there on my birthday and get sent off this summer."

You whispered, "Please don't."

"If I wait, I'll be drafted."

"You don't know that."

"My luck's never been that good."

"Maybe I can give you some of mine?"

You stretched to offer your lips. He didn't hesitate to kiss you. His arms drew you closer until your chest pressed against the side of his. His lips felt better—a smoother texture, tasting of burnt resin, yet offering more sensation. You wondered if everything else would follow suit.

The brittle bark crunched under your leg as you leaned on him. You swept your fingers through his shaggy hair and nearly broke the kiss to marvel at the silky texture. His hands glowed where they touched your side and hip. His arm around your back steadied you and kept you from moving away.

With eyes still closed, he murmured, "I like your luck," against your lips.

"Don't stop."

He didn't until soft fireworks went off behind your eyelids.

* * *

Last night you'd packaged the batch of birthday peanut-butter cookies for Phil. They weren't anything special, but it was the only cookie recipe from Home Ec you'd learned. You knew he liked peanut butter. And they weren't overly sweet.

After dinner, you slid the package of cookies into the gift bag and checked yourself in the dresser mirror. You looked as good as you could manage. Maybe you could refresh your eyeliner, though. As you reached for the pencil, your mother called to you from the front door.

You really needed to get your driver's license.

You snatched the gift bag and rushed to the front door, your mother already halfway to the car.

She didn't comment on your jiggling knee nor your lack of conversation. Just like she hadn't questioned why you wanted your allowance early. Not that giving Phil a birthday present was a big deal. It wasn't. You just wanted him to like it. And maybe to think you were cool and that you understood him.

As the car stopped in front of the Zimmerman's, she said, "Call me when you're ready."

You nodded. "Thanks."

The neighborhood was already quiet. Tall trees behind the house hid the setting sun. Golden light shone from the big front window.

You wiped a damp palm on your jeans before ringing the doorbell. The yellow porch light flicked on a second before the front door opened. A dour man with salt-and-pepper hair and wearing glasses stood behind the screen door. He looked a lot like Phil. Or Phil looked a lot like him.

You introduced yourself and explained you were there to give Phil a birthday present.

The man softly harrumphed and opened the screen door. "He's downstairs watching _Get Smart_."

"Okay, great, thank you, sir," you said as you stepped inside.

He pointed towards the kitchen. "Around the corner."

"Yes, sir."

You didn't dawdle in the living room. You got the impression Phil's father didn't approve of you in his house. The front door snapped closed as you walked through the dim kitchen.

Following the faint sound of a television, you found the basement door ajar. You went down to find Phil sprawled on the plaid sofa in front of a newer color television. He sat up when he saw it was you, eyes darting to the gift bag.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey, happy birthday!"

"Thanks," he returned as he pivoted on the sofa to give you someplace to sit. "You want something to drink?"

"Coke is fine."

He grinned. "Can't tempt you with a beer?"

"Well, unlike some people, I'm not allowed to have alcohol yet."

"Has that ever stopped you before?"

"I plead the Fifth."

You sat where his sock feet had been as he went to the old fridge behind the wood-panel bar. Setting the gift bag on the scuffed coffee table, you asked where everyone was. He replied that there were plans for Saturday.

"You can come," he added as he uncapped the Coke. "If you want."

"Okay." You shrugged a shoulder. "What're you doing?"

"Bowling. Guys'll probably want to cruise down to Garth's to pick up chicks."

He gave you the cold bottle, turned down the television's volume, and sat beside you.

"Does that ever work?" you asked.

He laughed, "No."

With a smile, you nudged the bag to him as you sipped at your soda. He glanced at you before tugging the bag near.

He pulled out the record first, his eyes widening. "Hell yeah, I've been wanting this. How did you know I like CCR?"

"Good guess? I figured if you like Led Zeppelin, you'd like them."

"I do," he said and leaned in to kiss your cheek, which heated at the touch.

He didn't move away. He gazed into your eyes. It was difficult to maintain eye contact. You kept peeking at his lips, though you didn't mean to.

You murmured, "There's more."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Cool."

He straightened and dug around in the bag to find the cookies. He almost crushed a few, but it didn't matter. You jabbered that the cookies weren't a big deal. Because they weren't. They were just something you'd learned to make last year. If he didn't like them, or peanut butter or whatever, you'd take them home.

While you spoke, he stuffed two cookies in his mouth with a groan.

You watched, speechless and holding your breath. He gave you a lopsided grin and a thumbs-up as he chewed.

After an audible swallow, he said, _"Good._ They're good."

You huffed a laugh and ducked your bobbing head.

"Hey—"

You looked up.

"Go to prom with me."

"Just because of the cookies?" you teased with a smile. "You haven't even seen the last thing yet."

"I'll get there, baby, but, ya know, the last hurrah—or whatever."

"Last hurrah?"

"Yeah, before I ship off."

Your stomach sank.

"Ship off?"

"Yeah? I'm getting it over with."

"But..."

You'd asked him not to.

"Look, I can enlist with the Navy and never see the Ho Chi Minh trail."

"That doesn't mean it's not dangerous." You shook your head. "What if something changes? And suddenly it's a naval..." You search for the right word. "Conflict?"

"Doubtful," he said with a scoff. "Look, I do this, and the government will pay for college."

"But I'll be almost done by then."

"Then you can show me the ropes."

"Phil... _No._ How do you know you'll be drafted, huh? You don't. Throwing yourself at this won't save you."

"Save me? You act like I'm gonna automatically get blown up the second I leave."

"And you're acting like this is a good thing to do." You leaned in to whisper, "This war is wrong. You even said so yourself."

"It doesn't matter."

"And what about me? Don't I matter?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I'm sure I'm not the only guy you're seeing." He waved a hand generally in the air. "Just go have fun with them. Because you're not having fun with me, that's for damn sure."

Where had _that_ come from?

Feeling small, you said, "I have fun with you."

"Really? This is fun for you?"

"Well, geez, I'm sorry I'm not all over you right now." You scooted away. "I thought I'd give you a present first. For your birthday. That I just found out about a few days ago."

"Because you didn't care about it."

You didn't spend all your allowance on people you didn't care about. If he thought you threw money around indiscriminately, you couldn't imagine what he thought about your sexuality. Maybe he was only going out with you because he thought you were easy. You weren't easy. You just knew what you wanted.

"If that's what you think, maybe I should go."

"Maybe you should."

You stood and found yourself upstairs in the kitchen. You didn't remember crossing the den or ascending the stairs or closing the basement door behind you. You went to the phone on the wall and dialed home. After a few rings, your mother answered. You tried to regulate your voice, or put on a smile, but your throat was too tight.

She said your name, and you nodded.

She couldn't see you. Of course, she couldn't.

"Yeah, it's me," you whispered. "I'm ready."

_ "I'll be there in a few. Meet me out front." _

"Okay, bye," you replied and hung up.

Mr. Zimmerman still sat in the armchair in the living room, one ankle resting on the opposite knee. You swallowed around the lump in your throat. You could greet him and leave. You could. You had to.

Numbly, you cleared your throat, put on a mask of contentment, and strode through the living room.

Mr. Zimmerman barely looked around his newspaper as you wished him a good-night. He returned the sentiment and flapped the paper into place. You concentrated on opening and closing the front door as normally as you could. There was no need to sink into hysterics. That would only give Phil the idea that he'd gotten to you.

And he didn't deserve to know.

It was still dusk. You'd been at the Zimmerman's for— _maybe_ —twenty minutes. It felt like much, much longer.

You wrapped your arms around yourself and waited for your mother.

* * *

You went to prom with a group of your friends. Your mother helped you choose a pretty dress from a bridal store downtown. She did your hair, too. Even you could admit you looked amazing. You couldn't wait for everyone to see you and to see everyone else all dolled up.

As you waited in line for your prom portrait, you scanned the milling crowd.

Phil wasn't there.

You told yourself you didn't care as you smiled at something your best friend said.

* * *

Graduation rehearsal in the gym was a blur. You refused to pay attention when the Zs were put in alphabetical order. Not that there were many Zs. Still, you didn't look. You picked at the lint on your tartan skirt.

Graduation was a blur, too. The new shoes you'd bought to go with the graduation gown pinched your feet. It was easier to fiddle around with those than watch Philip Zimmerman cross the stage, all tall and confident—and leaving any day now.

It had been awkward that first week in Trig after his birthday. You'd felt his eyes on you the whole time. It was worse when you had to go to the board. However, you'd managed it somehow. Day by day, you'd managed it—until you didn't have to go to Trig anymore.

You teared up in relief. Right there in your seat, between two people you'd probably never see again.

* * *

In the middle of July, you received a letter from Missouri. Your mother asked if one of your friends had moved as she handed you the envelope. You frowned and righted it to read the address.

Your stomach swooped.

You knew that uneven, loopy handwriting in black ink.

You excused yourself and nearly ran from the kitchen table to your room. You closed the door behind you and put a hand to your chest. You didn't know what your heart was doing in there, but it wasn't beating like it should.

You sat at your desk and plucked the letter opener from the paper-mache'd soup-can full of writing utensils. Your hands shook so badly you had to rest the envelope on the desk to slice open the flap.

The paper inside was standard notebook paper, blue-lined and one-inch-margined. You half-expected it to smell like him. You almost laughed at the absurdity of him spraying it with cologne. It wasn't a love letter.

You unfolded the two sheets of paper and smoothed them.

> Hi. How are you? I'm in basic training at Fort Leonard Wood in Missouri. I'm about halfway through. It's been different than I thought. Wake up is 0430. I thought I'd be ready for that, but it's awful.
> 
> I never got to thank you for the birthday presents. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about a lot of things. I try to live without regrets, or only regret stuff I didn't do, but I regret how everything went down with you.
> 
> I ate all those cookies that night. They were so good, I asked Mom to make them. Hers were good, but not like yours. I'd give my left nut to have another batch from you.
> 
> I wanted to bring that Fleming book you gave me, but I knew it would be confiscated. I read it before shipping out. It was a good read. Almost as good as Casino Royale.
> 
> Maybe we can see the movie when it comes out in December. We'll go out to dinner at a good place, if you want to. I've been thinking about Italian food since I got here. You ever have manicotti? The food here is mostly terrible. The only decent thing is the beef stew. Some idiot bitched in front of the CO about it and was put on latrine duty for a week.
> 
> I'm getting some good marks for shooting. Who knew hunting with the old man would pay off?
> 
> I think about you a lot. Maybe I'm an asshole to say it, but I miss you. I hope you write back, even if it's to yell at me.
> 
> \- Phil

You dug through your desk drawers to find a half-used notebook. After flipping to a blank sheet, you drew your favorite pen from the soup-can. You had a loveable asshole to write back.

* * *

> Hi, baby. (I hope it's cool to call you that.) Thanks for writing me back. It's great to hear from you. I'm glad you got your learner's permit. You'll have to drive us around when I'm back in town.
> 
> Mom was mad at me when you stopped coming around. She knew I'd screwed up. Me not saying anything about it kind of confirmed it. She said you're still welcome to drop by. Don't expect a lot from my father. He's fine, but not a talker.
> 
> Did you watch the Apollo 11 launch? Everything on base stopped so we could listen to it. Right now, they're still heading for the moon. There's talk of them not being able to return. Sounds crazy to go if it's true. I guess if we don't want communism to spread to space, they'll have to defend the moon against the ruskies.
> 
> I don't understand it, but I'm below a grunt here.
> 
> I know you think me signing up was a mistake. You might be right. I feel on a path, like it will lead me where I need to go. I can't promise nothing bad will happen. I can promise I'll come back. I think of you and something shifts.
> 
> You're the type of girl every guy needs. I thought there must've been plenty waiting to date you. Everything came out all wrong on my birthday. It wasn't what I meant. My head was all jammed up and I showed my ass. I'll try to keep it under wraps in the future.
> 
> If everything goes right, I'll graduate basic on August 22. After that, they'll send me who-knows-where for individual training. My CO has hinted I'll be good transport and defense.
> 
> I hope to hear from you soon.
> 
> \- Phil

* * *

Phil went silent for a month after graduation. When he wrote again, he was in Virginia. He mentioned he'd been in Arizona for a phase in his training and hadn't had time to write. You didn't believe him, yet you still trusted him. As his involvement with the military continued, there would be things he couldn't tell you.

In the same letter, he said he'd complete the final training phase right before Thanksgiving. He'd have ten days leave before reporting for his first assignment. In West Germany.

Your heart sank to the floor when you'd read that.

You'd dragged your heart behind you until now, the Monday before Thanksgiving. His parents were picking him up at the airport—you glanced at the clock in the lecture hall—in about an hour.

While you wanted to join them, you didn't want to intrude. You didn't want to distract Phil away from his parents. You had class, too. He'd probably be tired from the flight, which had two layovers—something he groused about in his last letter.

Besides, he said he'd call you tonight. You two could make plans then.

It was almost eight when the phone rang.

That afternoon had dragged. You hadn't been able to concentrate on any assigned reading. Luckily, you had a week to finish it and take notes.

You answered on the third ring, hoping it was Phil.

_"Hey there,"_ he replied to your _"hello."_

His voice was deeper than you remembered, though he still sounded like himself. Your stomach fluttered like it was the first time he'd ever called you.

"Hi," you said with a smile.

_"I want to take you out tomorrow."_

"Italian?"

He hummed, and it reverberated down your spine. _"Can't think of anyone else I'd rather share manicotti with."_

Your face heated as your smile broadened. You were so glad you were alone in the kitchen.

"Me too."

_"Good, I'll pick you up at seven."_

"Where are we going?"

_"Luigi's, of course."_

With a soft laugh, you said, "Of course."

_"I'll see you at seven, baby."_

"See you then."

You hung up after he said good night and stared at the phone. You'd forgotten to ask after him. You'd forgotten everything you prepared to bring up. Evidently, he was fine. He was home. He sounded relaxed. You supposed he was saving all the conversation for dinner tomorrow.

* * *

The Zimmerman's station wagon stopped at the foot of the driveway just before seven. You whipped on your peacoat and grabbed your purse as you announced you were leaving. Your mother's muffled reply from the pantry came just before you closed the front door behind you.

The cold air bit through your patterned tights as you hurried away from the house. The wagon's passenger-side door popped open. Inside the car was warm. Phil smiled at you, and you at him, yet you felt a pang when you saw how short his hair now was.

Logically, you knew they'd buzzed it when he enlisted. It was now a traditional military cut, which did nothing to hide his cute ears. You reached out to touch the side of his hair, but he caught your hand and brought your knuckles to his plump lips for a kiss.

"Missed you, baby," he murmured and lowered your connected hands to the seat.

"Missed you, too." You studied him, gaze traveling from lips to eyes to hair. "It's so short."

"It's damn cold."

You chuckled. "Should I knit you a hat?"

"Think you could get it done before I leave?"

"Doubtful. Maybe Hanukkah."

"I'd like that," he said with a gentle squeeze of his hand.

"I'll see what I can do."

"I'd like dinner now, too. You hungry?"

You nodded with a _"mm-hm."_ You'd been too nervous to eat a regular lunch. You were still nervous now, but it felt different. Nerves had morphed into a good kind of giddy.

"Then let's eat," he said and released your hand to shift the car into Drive.

Dinner was an imperfect perfect. He ordered manicotti like he'd been craving. You chose ravioli in red sauce. The waiter didn't card either of you when Phil ordered wine. You talked about your classes and professors and the people you've met around campus. He talked about his fellow recruits and their hijinks, the obstacle courses, and the particular way everyone had to march.

Phil said Saturday nights were movie nights on base. They ran black-and-white classics; sometimes a war movie. _Bridge on the River Kwai_ was a favorite of his CO's. The whole platoon had had to cancel plans to watch it.

You asked if the platoon was staying together.

"No," he said. "No one's going to Germany with me."

"So, what will you be doing there?"

He took a sip of wine. "Transport and intelligence, mostly. We'll be there to defend West Germany against the Russians in the east."

"Are you right on the border or something?"

"Pretty close—Gelnhausen." He shrugged. "In the state of Hesse."

"Wait, like the Hessian in _Sleepy Hollow_?" you asked with a grin.

He barked a laugh. "I guess so."

You giggled. "Please don't lose your head over there!"

"Like a _Mirror, Mirror_ version of the story, right?" His eyes twinkled in the candlelight. "Instead of a Hessian coming to America and getting his head chopped off, it's an American going to Hessen—"

"But not getting his head chopped off."

"No, definitely not."

"Then not exactly _Mirror, Mirror_."

He smirked. "No, but close enough."

After dinner, he put his long arm around your shoulders as you walked through the parking lot. Warm from the wine, you wrapped an arm behind his back. He felt broader, his waist firmer. Now that you thought about it, his shoulders had filled out. He also filled out his jeans nicely. He looked good and more mature than when you'd last seen him. He might've had a final growth spurt in the five months since, too.

He opened the car door for you, his hand sliding down to rest at the small of your back. You paused before getting inside and turned to face him.

You asked, "Do you want to go to Mesa Overlook?"

You knew exactly what you were offering. It appeared he did as well as he met your eyes under the street light.

"I better get you home," he said. "It's almost ten."

That wasn't a rejection. He didn't say he didn't want to. He still liked you. He'd taken your hand when you'd first arrived at the restaurant. He'd been sweet during dinner.

You put on a smile and chirped, "You're right. It's too cold for that," before sitting.

You both stayed quiet on the drive back to your house.

What if he was only assuaging his guilt with this date? He could be making sure you were okay before disappearing for good. Maybe he wanted some assurance he wasn't a bad guy. Then again, he could've gotten that through the letters you two had been exchanging for months.

He parked the car by the curb in front of your house. You angled to him as he did to you.

"Thank you for dinner," you said. "I had a good time."

"I did, too." He drew his bottom lip between his teeth. "Look, it's not like I don't want you."

You blinked. "Alright."

"I just want you in a bed."

You froze. You thought your heart stopped, too. No one you'd previously dated said it like that. Oh, they said they wanted you, but they only wanted what you could do for them.

He added, "And naked."

Your voice was reedy as you said, "Naked together?"

He nodded. "Have you done it yet?"

You shook your head. With how things had been headed before his birthday, you thought he might've been your first. Perhaps you weren't wrong. It had simply been delayed.

You asked, "Have you?"

"No."

"I thought for sure…"

He snorted in self-deprecation. "Too busy. No one caught my eye."

"But we can't."

He moved closer and leaned in. "Why not?"

"I'm not, you know, on the Pill. I can't get condoms. They're kept behind the counter. If my parents find out I bought them, they'll freak out."

"I've got condoms."

"You do?"

He nodded. "Bought 'em on base before I left."

"For us?" you asked as you glanced at his lips.

He huskily replied, "For us."

You bobbed your head. You couldn't believe you'd just agreed to have sex with Phil. He didn't give you time to doubt, though. He wrapped a hand behind your neck and pulled you into a kiss.

It was better than you hoped, better than you remembered. You tilted your head to kiss him deeper. His soft lips tasted like red wine. He met you with open-mouthed kisses that made you squirm. You scooted across the seat to press yourself against his side.

His arm went around you as his other hand held your cheek. His tongue brushed yours, slithering and tasting. It had you pushing in for more.

You wanted in his lap, but the most you could do in the confining front seat was skim a knee up his thigh. He slowly trailed his hand down your side and clutched at the underside of your thigh. He pulled you in until your chest was plastered to his.

His kisses slowed as his hand snaked under the hem of your skirt. You arched your back when his palm cradled one cheek of your ass. He broke the kiss to yank you higher and nip at your neck. You gasped, angling your head away for him.

"I'll tell you what we're gonna do," he murmured, his breath tickling your skin. "We're gonna meet up on Friday."

Breathlessly, you agreed.

"I'm gonna rent a hotel room, and you're staying with me all night."

He placed a hot kiss on your throat while his hand massaged your ass.

He continued, "Tell your parents you'll spend the night with a friend. Have her pick you up, and I'll meet you at hers around four."

You could do that. Your best friend would cover for you, like you'd covered for her.

"I can do that," you whispered.

"Good." He patted your ass. "Call me tomorrow."

* * *

The hotel wasn't one you'd heard of. It was medieval-themed with fake shields mounted behind the front desk, post-and-beam styling, and a cobblestone floor. As Phil checked-in, you waited in a seating area with your overnight bag resting against your leg. You'd wanted to make him peanut-butter cookies, because he said he'd been wanting them, but you feared it would be a dead give-away you were meeting him.

You'd make him a batch before he left for Germany.

He retrieved you from the seating area, startling you from your thoughts with a hand on your shoulder. You smiled up at him. He grinned back before scooping up your bag.

No one said anything as you walked with him to the room.

—Which was just as cheesy as the lobby. The carpet was red and the duvet purple. Stenciled murals decorated the white stucco-like walls. However, it was clean and private. The mirror above the sink in the generous bathroom was spotless.

He sat the bags next to the desk while you slipped off your coat and hung it up. You took his jacket, your fingers brushing, and hung it beside yours. As you closed the closet door, he wrapped his arms around your middle and moulded himself to your back.

You stiffened and quickly relaxed. It was just Phil.

He softly shushed you and kissed your neck. "Don't be nervous."

You hadn't been until you realized you were alone with him to do one thing. People did it— _had sex,_ you corrected—all the time. It wasn't anything groundbreaking. You'd had fingers in you before, so a penis couldn't be much different.

You asked, "Are you?"

"Maybe. A little. I just wanna feel good with you."

You turned in his arms to hold his face. His brown irises danced as he studied you. You couldn't stop your smile. He had changed, yet he was still the same. And you were into him—had been into him—would probably continue to be into him.

He murmured, "We'll do what feels good."

You nodded before rising onto your toes to kiss him. It felt like Tuesday night with his hands on you and his tongue teasing yours. This time, though, he walked you to a bed. There was no stopping either of you now.

You flopped onto the bed, dragging him down with you. He oofed and laughed as he nestled his hips between your thighs. You smiled before ducking down to kiss his throat. His pulse hammered against your lips as he quieted.

You kissed to his jaw and dragged your teeth over the sharp corner of it. He rolled his pelvis with a contented sound. You then mouthed to his ear, remembering how sensitive they were, and sucked at the lobe. He shivered and gasped, hips hitching.

As you slid your hands down his sides, you nipped at the rim of his ear. He whispered a curse as he sagged on his elbows. The hot length of his cock jerked between you.

In a bold move, you slinked a hand between his legs to fondle the mound of his erection. He gasped and rocked into your palm. You breathed a laugh, reveling in the fact you could do that. You could do that all night.

He playfully growled in response as he wrenched his ear away from your lips.

"You're fucking teasing me," he murmured, dark and full of promise.

One at a time, he forced your wrists above your head. Your mouth dropped open as he lay against you. In retaliation, you planted your heels in the mattress and circled your pelvis. He minutely moved with you, like he couldn't stop himself.

He asked, "You want it bad, don't you?"

"Maybe…"

"Maybe?" He trailed his hands down your forearms. "I can feel how hard your nipples are through your shirt."

He rose just a little to drag the hem of your thin sweater up. It was a caress you felt up your belly and over your breasts. Your bra was plain with lace cups. He stared at it for a second before latching onto one of your nipples where it jutted against the lace.

You dug your hands into his shorter hair as you keened and arched. He made an admonishing sound and pulled away.

"Get this bra off, baby, and put your hands on the bed."

"You, too—get your shirt off."

You struggled under him to unhook the bra as he reared up to yank his shirt over his head. You pulled your sweater and bra off in one-go and threw them away. As you lay back, you stopped dead.

Phil was definitely broader than you remembered. A hint of a farmer's tan colored the smooth skin of his arms and neck. His shoulders and pecs were muscled from push-ups. His arms were more defined now. A perfect shallow divot ran down his torso and into his jeans.

Your cunt pulsed at the sight.

_"Jesus,"_ he swore and dove in to kiss you.

His lips crashed against yours, teeth biting and tongue invading. With orders forgotten, you held onto his shoulders, his neck, the hair at the back of his head. His warm skin skidded against yours as he pushed an arm under your ribs, but it didn't matter how ungraceful either of you were.

He ducked low to kiss your chest, between your breasts. His other hand cupped one to steady it as he kissed to the nipple. With no barrier between his fever-hot mouth and your sensitive nipple, the first touch had you groaning and clutching at him.

His muffled groan answered you as he sucked.

Before it got too much, he slunk lower. Like breadcrumbs, he sprinkled biting kisses down your belly to the waistband of your jeans. He unfastened them and spread the fly to expose the top of your underwear.

He buried his face in the vee of the fly and groaned. His nose poked at your belly. His panting breath heated your skin through the thin cotton.

You breathed, "Phil…"

He grumbled something that you only caught the end of: "—smell the same."

You arched your back as you held onto his shoulders. "Don't stop."

He looked up at you, his eyes dark with need.

"Yeah?" he asked as he shifted off the bed to half-kneel on the floor—and now out of your reach.

"Uh-huh," you whimpered and straightened your legs, your feet hanging off the bed.

Your inner thighs were so hot, your groin steamy, and your pussy soaked and quivering. You didn't know where you wanted him, you just wanted all of him.

He hooked his hands under the waistbands of your underwear and jeans. He ordered you to lie back and let him do this. You nodded as he tugged the fabric halfway down your hips. He trailed kisses along the curve below your bellybutton. Each touch of his lips had your stomach and cunt quivering in nervous anticipation.

He paused there to kneel and work your sneakers and socks off. You wiggled your bare toes and twitched on the bed, not knowing whether you should push your pants down for him or not. Some part of you wanted to do it now. The first time was supposed to hurt, and you wanted to get that over with. Yet another part was curious. He'd made you orgasm with his fingers. You wondered if he could do it with his dick—or, holy shit, his mouth.

Guys bragged about being muff-divers, or _cunning linguists_ , or whatever, but you figured they were repeating crap they'd overheard.

Phil put a knee between yours on the bed, knocking you out of your rambling thoughts. He took hold of the fabric hiding the triangle of your pubic hair, but something in your face made him pause.

He frowned and sounded concerned as he asked, "You cool?"

"Yeah, cool, just…"

He crawled up to kiss you again. You deepened the kiss automatically and ran your hands over his shoulders, down his firm arms. You really could do this all day: kissing and rubbing your bare skin against his.

He pulled back a scant inch. "You know I think you're gorgeous, right?"

You smiled. "You've seen me before."

"Part of you, at night." He brushed the tip of his nose against yours. "I wanna see you, taste all of you, feel you on my dick."

Heat bloomed through your chest to center on your cheeks. His words were unexpected. You thought he'd get you here, strip you, and take you. _Bam, bam, bam._ But you should've known better. He'd kept your underwear and sucked your wetness from his fingers right in front of you. He touched you at every opportunity.

On top of that, he was leaving in days.

You kissed him again, holding his face, breathing in the clean musk of his skin. You told yourself to remember this moment forever.

You whispered, "Whatever you want."

He blushed, rosy and perfect—and yours.

Without a word, he straightened and worked your clothes down. His boot caught in the rumpled duvet, making him lurch with a laugh. You laughed with him and brought your legs together to assist. He tugged away your clothes, cast them aside, and toed off his boots.

His smile dissolved as he studied you. "Goddamn."

He bent, gripped your hips, and dragged you to the edge of the bed. You began to ask what he was doing, but the question died as he lowered himself to the floor between your knees. You fisted the wrinkled fabric around you as he continued to stare at your bush.

He smoothed his palms up your thighs, spreading your legs the higher his hands went. When he reached the apex, he traced his thumbs up your wet slit.

"Tell me if I hurt you, or do something wrong."

"Okay," you whispered as you rested your head back and closed your eyes.

"Okay," he returned and eased your labia apart.

The cooler air made your pussy clench. You were exposed to him. Then came a puff of warmth. His mouth was right there. You were about to chicken out when the velvety flat of his tongue lapped up your folds.

_Oh._

Oh, that felt nice. You wordlessly encouraged him. He kept lapping until he pressed his lower face in your pussy and pushed his tongue inside you. It was like he was frenching your cunt. You gasped and stared open-mouthed at the ceiling.

He returned to licking, catching your clit at the top. With each drag, your hips jerked at the spark of pleasure. You wanted him right there and whined for it.

He shushed you as he slipped a finger in your cunt. The new fullness only added to your growing pleasure. He pumped his finger in time with his lapping tongue.

You moaned. Nothing had ever felt like this.

He slowed, and the fullness in your cunt increased. Another finger. He was working you open—stretching you for his dick. The very thought made you want it more, made you writhe.

Phil rested his temple on your thigh. "Shit, baby, calm down, I got you."

You gasped, "Keep going!"

With a hungry sound from deep in his chest, he licked a thick stripe between your folds. His tongue was silky and strong. You reached for his head, wanting to touch him, wanting to fist his hair, but it wasn't long enough. You scratched along his scalp instead.

He groaned in reply and kissed your clit.

"Please!"

The steel weight of his arm pressed your hips to the bed. You realized you'd been squirming and flexing and humping up into the air. You wouldn't apologize.

A third finger joined the other two inside you. The stretch of it was new, strange, but it didn't hurt. They glided together, stroking nerves you never knew existed.

He groaned and flicked his tongue over your clit. It felt like cracks crazed up your body. You felt tighter, yet more fragile as he continued to pump his thick fingers and lap at your clit.

"Circle it," you gasped. "Like before."

"Like this?" he asked before pressing the tongue to your clit and swirled it around.

You pulled at the back of his head and keened. All your focus, all your feeling, centered between your legs. Those cracks became fractures. You gasped for air, not able to get enough. It was too much. Fractures became fissures until you shattered like glass.

You cried out as your cunt throbbed around his driving fingers over and over. Orgasm deafened you, made you numb to anything else but the sharp pleasure that flooded you.

You flailed and twisted under his unyielding hold. Your body kept throbbing. Your heart thundered in your ears as you collapsed onto the bed in broken, pleasure-racked pieces.

You moaned and covered your sweaty face with your hands. Nothing had ever felt that good. You didn't know you could feel something like that. Tears gathered behind your eyelids, because it had been too much, too wonderful, too powerful.

Weren't first times supposed to suck?

You laughed.

The bed dipped next to you. Gentle fingers pried one of your hands away from your face. You turned your head in Phil's direction.

"Hey," he murmured.

You grinned. "Hey."

"You okay?"

"Oooh yeah."

His breath smelled like pussy. Your pussy. You giggled to yourself and pulled him down for a kiss. You tasted the salty-sweet tang of yourself on his tongue.

As he kissed you, his warm hand trailed down your body to play with your dripping cunt. You bent a knee to give him room. You were empty, needy. And ready. So ready.

The ridge of his clothed erection burned against your hip. You fumbled onto your side to cup it. He broke the kiss with a gasp, his hips jerking into your touch.

"I want you to," you said. "I can—" You swallowed around a dry throat. "I can take it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." You flashed a cheeky grin. "Yes, sir."

His dick pulsed in your palm as his eyes darkened. He suddenly swooped in to kiss you hard. You groaned into the kiss and massaged him through his jeans.

He wrenched back with a curse. "Get on the sheets. I wanna see those thighs spread."

You scrambled to the center of the mattress while he went to his bag. You threw the duvet and inner blanket to the foot of the bed. In the meantime, he'd unzipped his jeans and dug around for the condoms. You sat against the pillows, knees to the side, as he found the condom box, tore it open, and plucked a packet from the row.

He turned to face you and stopped. "I said I wanted to see those thighs spread, baby," he said, eyes twinkling.

You slid down the bed to recline on your elbows.

"Spread 'em," he ordered with a smirk.

You bit your bottom lip as you grinned and swayed a crooked knee out. You eyed the distended cotton of his boxers in the vee of his open fly. With what basic training had done to his upper half, you wonder what the rest of him looked like. Because while you'd touched him through his clothes, or he'd jerked off in the dark, you'd never seen him from the waist down.

You asked, "What about you?"

"What about me?" he led.

"Take the rest of it off."

You thought he might challenge, or tell you to ask nicely, or something equally asshole-y. Yet he placed the condom packet between his teeth and pulled off his socks. He looked at you as he wiggled the rest of his clothes down.

It was difficult to maintain any sort of eye-contact. Each new inch of skin drew your gaze like metal to a magnet. His square hips had the perfect v-lines pointing right down to his cock, which jutted hard and flushed from a patch of black pubic hair. His long legs were lean and nicely shaped.

You wanted to touch him, kiss him, all over. You wanted to explore. You wanted him tight against you, in you, filling you and warming you.

You met his eyes and nodded. "Please," you softly said. "You're—" You shook your head, at a loss for words. "—amazing."

He barked a laugh, catching the condom midair, as his cheeks reddened. "Amazing?"

You floundered for a second to remember what he'd called you.

_"Gorgeous._ You're gorgeous."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, now come here."

He steadied his cock and approached. You stretched out the leg resting on the bed. As he neared, you realized he was in proportion. Every part of him. He towered over you. His shoulders blocked the light from the lamp across the room.

You glanced at his crotch.

His hands were big, too. They just covered his bobbing erection.

_Oh shit._

_Oh fuck._

How was _that_ supposed to fit in you?

Sure, you'd touched him before, even had your bare hand on him. At the time, the girth and length of him hadn't mattered. You'd noticed, but—

Phil put a knee on the bed and bent over you. Reaching for him, you tried to hide your apprehension. It would be fine. He said he'd stop if anything hurt. Girls did this every day, you reminded yourself.

He asked, "Still with me?"

You nodded before drawing him down for a kiss. He'd been making you feel so good. This kiss was no different. You lost yourself in the feel of his plump lips on yours. You combed through his thick hair, damp with sweat at the temples.

His legs knocked into yours as he maneuvered between them. You rolled fully onto your back with thighs wide. He dropped the condom by your shoulder to cradle your breast. You sighed and paused the kiss as his thumb stroked side-to-side over your stiff nipple.

"Keep going," you breathed.

He wasted no time in touching between your legs, sucking in a breath like he was the one whose nerves were singing. He found your tender clit and gave it a few gentle circles. Your cunt throbbed, and you bit back a whimper of need as you hung onto him. He slid a thick finger inside you and groaned.

He whispered, "Little pussy's so hot."

You flexed your hips down to encourage him to finger you. He slowly pumped his finger as he glanced between your face and groin. It didn't hurt, and you told him to add another. When he did, you panted from the delicious fullness.

"Good?"

"So good."

_"Fuck,_ let me—"

You frantically nodded. "Yeah, yeah, do it."

"One more, okay?"

You whined through gritted teeth.

"I know, me too."

He kissed you like a demand. You demanded right back, sucking at his tongue and pulling at his shoulders.

You both moaned as he squeezed a third finger in your quivering cunt. It was a lot and new—even strange—but you liked it. That weight and stretch was somehow comforting and gratifying. It was Phil filling and touching you how no one else ever had.

He kept his fingers deep, just inching them in and out. Sweat broke out on your back and hairline. Heat suffused your body from your belly outwards as the moment stretched on. The pillow under your head was stifling, and you wrenched it away.

"Ready?"

You whispered, "Yeah."

Gently, he withdrew his fingers. The unfamiliar emptiness left you bereft, but you quickly forgot it as you watched him kneel between your legs. Pink lines from your fingers decorated his shoulders. His swollen lips were red and wet like a wound. His flushed cock dripped clear liquid onto the bed as he ripped open the condom packet.

His brows furrowed as he rolled on the translucent condom. You sat up to assist, but he gave you a look that told you no. Instead, you ran your palms up his outer thighs. The sparse hair there was an interesting texture.

Once satisfied with the condom, he stopped your hands with his own.

"Lie back," he said.

You leaned on your elbows and let your bent legs drop open. He stared between them and wrapped a tight hand around the base of his dick.

"Get down here and kiss me."

He wet his lips and got on an elbow above you. You laid back, and he followed. He dipped in to press his lips to yours. Between kisses, you whispered you wanted him.

And you did. You didn't care if this was the only time you'd get to have him. If it was, you wanted it to count.

The head of his cock ran through your slick folds until it nudged at your opening. He cursed against your lips.

"It's okay," you whispered.

"I'll go slow."

"Okay."

You breathed as you tried to release the tension from your muscles. He began the slow push inside. You were so wet, his cock steadily sunk right in. You groaned at the intrusion. His cock was definitely not his fingers. But it didn't hurt. You were stretched to the point it felt like an invasion.

_"Jesus Christ,"_ he bit.

Through the strain in your chest, you said, "Give me a minute."

He dropped his head on your shoulder. "Can do."

Your cunt fluttered as your muscles minutely loosened. He grunted against your collarbone. You didn't know how your body could accommodate him. You were full to your solar plexus. His cock pulsed deep inside you, and you couldn't stop the small sound at the feeling.

It was _good_.

"I think I'm ready."

That might've been a lie.

Phil grunted an affirmative and widened his stance. The movement had you clutching at his sides. He kissed your neck and began to rock his hips. You drew your knees up, and he sunk impossibly deeper. He groaned, wrapping an arm behind your shoulders.

The bed shimmied with each thrust, propelling your hips up to meet his. Each slap of his pelvis fucked a little sound out of you. He was so deep, his cock sliding against every sensitive nerve in your cunt.

He pulled you down to meet a thrust. It angled you differently, the shaft of his cock now rubbing at the underside of your clit. You moaned and tensed and dug your nails into his skin. It was too much.

He growled a curse, held you tighter, and quickened his pace. Your cunt almost clenched, but it couldn't. He was too thick.

He took you faster, pistoning deep as if to draw something out of you. Your eyes went wide as you clung to his flexing lower back. You hadn't known it was supposed to feel like this.

_"Fuck,"_ he moaned and caught your lips for a kiss.

The bed squeaked with each thrust. It sounded like it might snap at any second. It sounded like you felt, because you didn't know if you would make it through whatever was building inside.

You gasped against his open mouth as he crashed into you, again and again. You twisted under him, tensing and grinding up. Your knees clamped at his sides as your thighs jittered.

"Tha's right, baby, c'mon," he hissed.

You keened.

He shoved a hand in the space between your bodies and pressed hard on your clit. Near mindless and overwhelmed, you stared into his eyes as he ground into you. You saw the second his release took over his body. His cock pulsed as his dark eyes went hazy. His fingers tensed, rasping over your clit, and that was all it took to wrest you into orgasm with him.

His heaving chest pressed to yours as he hugged you. His humid breath heated your neck where he'd buried his hot face. You hooked your ankles behind his back as your pussy continued to throb out of sync with your heart.

He smelled so good, all clean, delicious sweat and male musk. You kissed his sweat-slick shoulder. One of his hands smoothed up your spine to support your neck.

He lifted himself to meet your gaze. His face was pink and dewy, those beautiful eyes of his full of what could only be love. You smiled and pulled him in for another kiss.

And another.

And another...

* * *

> Hi, baby. Arrived in Gelnhausen unharmed. Head still attached.
> 
> You won't believe how clean it is here. No garbage in the streets. The buildings aren't damaged from WW2. It's cold and already snowed. Not a ton, but enough that kids were playing in the fields this afternoon. I think a Christmas market is starting soon in some historic district. (My German is atrocious.)
> 
> You'd like it here. I wish you could visit. I was thinking about getting a camera and taking some pictures for you. Now that I'm stationed somewhere for the foreseeable future, I can send and receive packages.
> 
> I went out drinking with the new platoon. I told the story of you connecting the Headless Horseman to Hessen. One of the guys imitated a horse and tried to pick me up. He fell into the gutter. I almost did too. He got covered in wet leaves and had to go to bed smelling like a swamp.
> 
> I think about you every day. Not that there's much here that reminds me of you. Nothing's as  gorgeous . I miss the smell of your hair. Kind of a stupid thing to miss. I miss it anyway. I miss kissing you too. And other things.
> 
> I'll be getting phone privileges soon. Tell me your schedule for the new semester so I'll know when to call. I can't wait to hear your voice.
> 
> Your Very Headed Hessian,
> 
> Phil


End file.
